Strands
by lieselmemingers
Summary: Set after Forever Until. Ray wants to make a change.


A/N: This was just a quick little thing that came to me. It's set over a decade after Forever Until, so you'll need to have read that first. Mentions of character death.

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**Strands**

_A ficlet set after Forever Until._

Its early morning when I hear a commotion in the bathroom; the sound of something being dropped, and a low oath that can only be from my fifteen year old son's mouth. I wince, and think that perhaps I should limit the time he spends with Haymitch.

The tiles are cold on my bare feet when I push the door open, and tug my flannel robe closer to my body to block out the winter chill. The light hits the back of my eyes painfully, and it takes a few moments to see what Ray is doing. In his hand is a light brown bottle, and on the shelf next to him sit an array of smaller bottles, leaflets, and an empty box.

"What are you doing?" I ask warily.

"You should knock, mom," Ray tells me reproachfully, his face staring out at me from the mirror. "I'm not a little kid."

I ignore him and pick up the box. In beautiful technicolour, a man smiles up at me, frozen in some moment of glee. His black hair is unusually shiny and thick. And then, the penny drops, and my stomach feels like it hits the cold floor right next to my frozen feet.

"Are you changing your hair?" I ask, and my voice quivers.

His hair. His soft, blonde hair.

"Yeah," he confirms casually, avoiding my gaze in the mirror. "I got it at the store. There's a whole shelf of them. All the kids are doing it."

I snatch the bottle from his hands before either of us can say any more. Ray protests and makes the grab it back, but I'm too quick.

"Give it back!" he says.

"What did I tell you? What have I always told you?" I yell. "Don't trust anything from the City. Not ever! Does this look like it was made here in Twelve?"

"No, but-"

"Don't talk back to me! Your hair stays as it is."

"I hate you, you ruin everything!"

The words hit me like a slap in the face. My baby boy, the cold bottle in my hands, and the sting of the one thing he's never been angry enough to say. And there it is; _I hate you_. Pria says it – less so, now she's older – but it never felt real, because she got so much of my anger that I expected it. But Ray was always calm, gentle.

I hand the bottle back and he takes it. The tears are clawing at the back of my eyes.

As though doubting his own nerve, Ray quickly brings the bottle up and squeezes a healthy dollop of the dark mixture onto his golden hair. I can't breathe. I can't stand up. All I can think about is a day long gone, where Ray's soft hair danced in the breeze, and tangled with his father's. So similar it would be almost impossible to tell the two heads apart. On the beach, with the sun setting and Ray curled up against Peeta, and the threat of our days ending washing up closer to us like the tide.

I feel my knees hit the tiles floor, and Ray swears again. I hear the tap run, and then his face swims in front of my own, his hair darkened by water but clean and blonde.

Ray sits next to me, and I try to bring the white tiles back into focus. I try to put myself back together.

"It's because it's like dad's isn't it?" he asks quietly.

I can breathe again. I nod, and push my hair back from my face, longing to braid it and keep it out of the way. My neck feels too hot.

"I look a lot like him, don't I?" Ray mutters.

I lift my head and stare up at my son. His strong jaw, the soft waves of damp hair falling over his forehead. The soft skin that grows a new pimple every day. I can see some of myself in him, but mostly I just see Peeta.

"You do," I confirm.

"I always knew that," he nods.

Later that morning, I watch him set off for school, with his blonde hair shining in the sun. The hair dye is discarded for now, but still I cling to the image with relish, and search back through my heart, dusting off the old records that I'd stored away years ago in order to carry on living. And there he is, walking next to ray with his apron slung over his shoulder as he heads to the bakery. He ruffles his son's hair affectionately, and if Ray weren't too old to be hugged goodbye at the school gates, their hair would do that special dance that I always felt left out of.

I don't realise that I've closed my eyes until I open them, and Ray walks alone; a single blonde head in the distance.


End file.
